


The College AU

by irisbleufic



Category: Toy Soldiers (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Flashbacks, Growing Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-01
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the endings we've longed to change, this one matters the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ from November 2003 through June 2008.

Billy closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat, listening to the scratch of Joey’s pen. He could tell Joey was tired, too—quieter than usual, less ready with a smile. It had been a _good_ day, he had to admit. About the only parts that had sucked involved getting up at six in the morning to board the bus and hitting a huge traffic jam just outside of Boston. As Senior Activity Days went, though— _damn_. Worth going just to see Joey so fucking happy.

Billy opened his eyes again, blinking at the seat in front of him. Joey’s pen was still.

"Go back to sleep," Joey said. "We’ve got like an hour to go."

Billy turned his head. "Nah, can’t."

Joey smiled, faint twist of his lips. "So much for the early bird theory."

"Shut up," Billy muttered, elbowing Joey. His eyes briefly came to rest on Joey’s notebook. "What’s that?" Billy asked, tapping it with his fingertip.

Joey shrugged and looked down at the scrawl of his handwriting with a frown. Messier than usual. "Thoughts."

Billy squinted at the page, tilting his head. "Penny for ’em?"

"Death by platitudes," Joey said, shaking his head. He smiled again, looking up at Billy. "Lyrics," he admitted. "Song lyrics."

Suddenly, Billy didn’t feel so tired. He traced a squiggle that looked suspiciously like a capital _S_. The rest of the word was… "Salem?"

"Yeah," Joey said, capping his pen with a sigh. "Fucking corny."

Billy grabbed the pen away from him, then tapped it lightly up Joey’s sleeve. "How do you know?"

Joey snatched the pen back and tucked it behind his ear. "Because _all_ the indie bands around here write songs about Salem."

Billy watched the headlights from a passing car briefly illuminate Joey’s face. Joey’s lashes cast fine, spidery shadows against his cheeks. "So? They’re all Goth and shit. At least you’re original."

Joey laughed and let his head fall back, shaking it against the seat. "Whatever, Billy."

 _God, you’re beautiful like that._ Billy caught himself before the words tumbled out, biting the inside of his lower lip as another passing car showed him Joey’s eyes—dark and calm, brief glassy shimmer. Billy reminded himself to blink. "I’m serious," he said instead.

Joey visibly bit his own lip, eyes drifting half closed. "Thanks."

"I’m ser—" Billy cut himself off.

Sudden burst of light as they passed a strip mall. Goddamn Mass Pike. Joey was grinning at him lazily. "I know."

 _What am I supposed to say to that?_ In some corner of his mind, Billy was sure he should be panicking. The rest of his mind seemed pretty sure that he needed to smile at Joey, so he did.

Joey’s grin softened, eyelids dropping in a sleepy blink. "I’ll type it up or something, if you want."

"Sure," Billy said, and gave up on blinking. Most of his brain was telling him that he needed to put an arm around Joey and pull him in close, maybe even nuzzle his hair and kiss his forehead. Billy reached over and took Joey’s hand instead, fingers trembling.

Joey didn’t pull away. He didn’t blink, either, or even look at Billy like he was crazy. His hand turned slowly under Billy’s, curving up to twine their fingers together. "Okay."

Billy ran his thumb over Joey’s, glancing down at their hands. _See? He’s not freaking out! You’re—_

Joey’s head lolled onto his shoulder, drowsy and graceful. For a second, Billy was sure Joey had fallen asleep…until Joey turned his head and settled in closer, breath warm against Billy’s neck, sighing comfortably before he went still.

 _Fuck, I’ve gotta say something,_ Billy thought, pressing his cheek to Joey’s forehead. _Soon._

* * *

_"Hey! What do you think you’re—"_

_"Tough luck, Ric," Billy said, diving onto the bed. "Spoke too late."_

_"Hey," Joey said, sprawling onto his side, white shirt draped carelessly across his chest. "What am I, the family dog?"_

_"No, genius," Billy said impatiently, kicking the covers down until they were all bunched up in front of Joey. He patted a spot on the mattress next to him._

_Joey crawled up beside Billy and lay down, fingers drifting up to twist in the pillowcase. If anyone else was watching, he didn’t seem to care._

_Billy didn’t, either._

 

Joey’s skin burned against Billy’s, heated in sleep. Billy shifted carefully, hoping the mattress wouldn’t creak, settling Joey close against his chest. Billy remembered waking when Joey stirred the first time, skewing the sheets with awkward movement and swearing softly. Billy didn’t realize what had happened until Joey settled down again, tugging the covers back up. He’d wrestled his shirt off. 

Billy had kept his eyes closed.

 

_"You okay?"_

_"Yeah," Joey whispered, his breath ghosting across the space between them. "Too hot."_

_"No kidding," Billy said, opening his eyes. Fuck, he had to stop shaking._

_"So?" Joey’s voice went even softer. "Take the sweats off, too. Not like anybody cares."_

_Billy knew that the right thing to do was make some wisecrack about Snuffy’s briefs, but all he could do was stare at Joey. Fucking deer in the headlights. "No boxers," he said tersely. "Then I’d be cold."_

_"No, you wouldn’t," Joey said, moving again._

_Before Billy knew it, his arms were full._

 

So much for saying something. Right time, wrong fucking place. Billy nuzzled Joey’s hair, running his fingers lightly down Joey’s back. Definitely asleep, dead weight in Billy’s embrace, breath slow and even against Billy’s shoulder. How the fuck could he even sleep? They were nuts, all of them. Didn’t Joey realize what they were about to do? Didn’t he realize they could…

 

_"They trust you," Joey said, tucking his chin over Billy’s shoulder._

_"Yeah," Billy sighed. "Unwisely."_

_"You think we’re gonna fail?" Joey touched Billy’s arm, gentle and reassuring._

_"I don’t know," Billy whispered._

_"I trust you." Joey’s fingers tightened, holding him._

 

Somewhere across the room, Snuffy murmured in his sleep. The answering mutter—Billy couldn’t tell. Maybe Ric, maybe one of the freshmen. Joey shivered in Billy’s arms, one long leg curling over Billy’s. Unlike Billy, _he_ was in nothing but boxers. Billy let his hand drift up from Joey’s shoulder blades, tangling his fingers in the soft hair at Joey’s nape. Still breathing even, still asleep. _Trusting._

Billy squeezed his eyes shut on tears.

* * *

_Billy woke to the sound of snoring, startled. Where the fuck was he? His hand shot out through tangled, unfamiliar covers. Where was—_

_Ric. Lying there snoring his head off, both arms flung up over his head. Billy sat up, rubbing his eyes. In the next bed over, Hank was trying his damnedest not to let Snuffy steal the sheets. Wild jungle-print comforter tangled up on the floor. Maroon industrial carpet, short-cropped and impersonal. Billy stared at the digital clock radio on the nightstand, then at the bright light filtering through the blinds. Nine thirty-seven in the morning._

_Billy slid out of bed, wincing. Another fresh t-shirt ruined. He sorted blindly through the clothes strewn across the floor until he found his jeans and socks. Couldn’t find his sweatshirt. He took Ric’s instead, pulling it on hastily, trying not to whimper. Shoes, shoes—he stumbled into his sneakers, shoving in one foot after the other. Billy struggled with the chain-bolt, then dashed out the door._

 

The light in the room felt harsh, even with the curtains mostly closed. Too much white. Everything was washed out, even the smell of flowers. There were so many of them, so many fragrances jumbled into one. Tulip, carnation, rose, iris, lily. Billy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. It was enough to make him sick. His back burned worse than it had the day before, even after…

 

_"Hey!"_

_Parker looked away from the guy he’d been talking to, frowning at Billy as he dashed across the motel parking lot. The guy looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in—_

_Billy stopped short, gasping. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…"_

_"Go back to your room, Billy," Parker said calmly. "Everything’s under control. You’ve done more than we could’ve asked."_

_Billy shook his head, trying to catch his breath. "No, you don’t understand. I need—"_

_"Tepper," Albert Trotta said, extending his right hand. "You must be William Tepper."_

_"Yes, sir," Billy said, accepting the handshake. Tired grip, like the poor guy had done it so many times that it was all he knew anymore. Weary eyes, dark like…_

_Billy couldn’t stand it. "Where’d they take Joey?"_

 

Billy picked the remote control up off the coffee table. Fucking meaningless babble, channel after channel. Billy turned the television off and tossed the remote back on the table, hitting one of the vases. He hadn’t known there were suites like this. He hadn’t known he’d have to wait, haunted by the sound of hushed voices from the other side of the door. He could hear Albert’s voice, Joey’s name. He could hear the nurse, her voice way too fucking unaffected.

 

_"Mass General," Parker said, glancing sidelong at Albert. "He came out of surgery late yesterday evening."_

_Billy’s stomach clenched. "How’s…"_

_"Stable condition," Albert said, smiling unexpectedly._

_Billy’s heart raced. "Dean Parker, I’ve gotta—"_

_"Go back to your room," Parker repeated. "Joey’s going to be in the hospital for at least a week or so. I promise I’ll keep you posted."_

_Fuck, he was going to cry. "You don’t understand, I have to—"_

_"I’ll take him with me," Albert said, fixing his eyes on Parker. "He’ll make it back before evening."_

_Parker was silent, then looked at Billy._

_Albert touched Parker’s arm. "You have my word."_

 

The door opened, startling Billy out of his thoughts. Albert came out, followed by the young nurse, looking like he’d dropped about ten years. The nurse didn’t look at Billy as she left the sitting room, her white clogs squeaking softly up the hall.

Albert sat down beside Billy and turned one of the vases, adjusting it carefully. "He’s been out ever since they finished. Could be for a long time—she said that’s some strong anesthetic, as thin as he is."

"Will he be okay?" Billy sounded five years old again, small voice on the edge of tears. Fuck, he couldn’t swallow.

"Of course," Albert said, smiling again. "Go in and see him."

"Thanks." Billy nodded and stood up stiffly. His lower back ached from not being able to recline. Ric would never forgive him if he got blood on the sweatshirt. Billy hesitated in front of the door, grasping the cold metal handle.

Albert gestured for Billy to go ahead. "He asked for you."

Billy’s grip tightened. "What?"

"He was delirious when they put him under," Albert said, abruptly serious. "You’re Billy, aren’t you?"

Billy turned the handle and shoved the door open, the room’s darkened interior blurring before his eyes. He ignored the heat streaming down his cheeks. He had to do this, had to know. Fuck Parker. If the hospital would let him stay…

"Hey," Billy whispered, wheeling the chair up closer to the bed before sitting down. 

It wasn’t how fragile Joey looked that shocked him, or even how pale he was. Breathing, he was _breathing_. Ashen, on his back, left arm folded at an angle across his chest. Bare except for the bandages holding it there, hiding his shoulder. I.V. stuck in his right arm, lying neat and flat at his side. So close Billy could touch him. Light reddish streak across his cheek—that hadn’t been blood from the bullet wounds, that was a _scrape_. How the fuck could somebody look like that and still be breathing?

Billy looked away at the bedside table. Had to stop this, had to keep breathing himself. Joey was alive and mending. _Not_ dying, not like this. Billy clenched his fists on the arms of the chair, suddenly angry. Joey’s bracelets were lying on the table, but some of them were missing. The ones they’d had to cut were ruined, gone. How dare they?

"Assholes," Billy whispered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. He looked at Joey again and breathed deeply, reaching for the sheets next to Joey’s hand. "I’m going to get you a new sailor’s knot as soon as you’re outta here. We’ll go back to Salem some weekend and visit those stores again. They had all kinds of shit. You could even get one of those wish…"

Billy covered his mouth and bit the heel of his hand, shaking. What if the anesthetic was _too_ strong, what if it was all too much? Joey had been asleep for how many hours, thirteen or fourteen? No fucking clue. How long would he have to wait? He couldn’t leave, that was for damn sure. Joey’s dad was probably going to hang around, but how would Joey react to that? He didn’t see any other relatives around, just Albert. All those flowers… 

Billy’s hand fell in his lap. _No one else was allowed._ And Albert had _let_ —

Billy covered his mouth again, this time to stifle laughter. "Joey," he said soberly, "I hate to break it to you, but your old man isn’t so bad."

Joey’s fingers stirred against the sheet.

Billy swore quietly; he’d forgotten to lower his voice. Joey probably _needed_ the sleep—how much sleep had they really managed to get back at Regis? Not much. Billy remembered waking to find Joey gone. He’d been the first thing Billy saw: perched on Yogurt’s radiator, eyes fixed out the window, squinting at the morning.

Billy covered Joey’s cool fingertips with his own and closed his eyes. He didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to do this. He stood up, pushing the chair away. It squeaked as it went, bumping into the wall. Billy braced himself on the bed’s metal railing, lifting his hand from Joey’s. He ran his fingertips over Joey’s forehead, as firm a touch as he dared, ghosting over Joey’s eyelids.

"Something’s gotta change, Joey."

Slow and dreamlike, Joey opened his eyes.

"Hey," Billy whispered, too shocked to say anything else.

Joey glanced sideways at the window, then back at Billy. Questioning, almost afraid.

Billy reached down and took Joey’s hand, trying his best to smile. "You’ll be okay."

"Yeah," Joey said, fingers curling into Billy’s, and smiled.


	2. Where All Goes Right

Without opening his eyes, Billy could tell that they were going to have another day too cold for walking on the beach. A blast of wind drove sand against the windows, causing the entire house to shake, right down to the floorboards and the bedframe. Billy rolled over and clutched his spare pillow, smothering his breath against it. When he was little, waking up to that howling and shuddering used to scare him to death. As if his mother didn't take him to the Cape often enough, the trips had increased after the divorce. Reveling in the spoils and all that. The settlement had included not only the beach house, but a cabin somewhere way the fuck out in Colorado that Billy had never seen. Billy punched the pillow; no _way_ was he getting back to sleep with that racket outside. It was fucking _March_. Why the hell couldn't they have gone skiing? Snow didn't make as much noise, and the whole point of spring break was sleeping in. 

Billy finally gave up and blinked into the darkish white blur of the pillowcase. He sure hoped Joey was having better luck. He probably hadn't had as much experience shutting out sandstorms, and somehow Billy doubted that Albert Trotta was the kind of guy to own shoreline property (even if he was a damned good host, all that Mafia shit aside). Billy rolled over on his back again, tucking his chin over the pillow and staring at the ceiling. 

Joey hadn't been allowed to go anywhere for months. As irritating as that was, Billy grudgingly had to admit that it made sense. Trotta was just trying to keep his kid safe. Hell, _Billy_ was trying to keep him safe. Hard to let Joey go anywhere alone, even on campus, even if it meant getting funny looks when he tripped on the way to the closet for his coat and tripped again on his way out the door in order to catch up. Joey never got annoyed with Billy's behavior, or at least Billy didn't think so. He punched the pillow and gritted his teeth. He _hoped_ not. He realized that it was probably fucking ridiculous that he hadn't even let Joey pick up some sodas in that Sheetz on the way up while his Mom pumped gas. They'd both been dozing off, Billy up front in the passenger seat and Joey sprawled out in the back. He remembered blinking at Joey under the harsh glare of the parking lot lights and watching their breath frost. Joey had let Billy follow him inside without protest, and a bit of staggering to get the cooler door open resulted in a sleepy, startled hug.

_"You holding up okay?" Billy let go of Joey quickly, but left a steadying hand on his shoulder._

_Joey was clutching the six-pack to his chest like it was the Holy Grail, but he looked straight at Billy. "Yeah, you?"_

_"Too fucking cramped to sleep," Billy admitted, automatically reaching for the Coke. "Gimme that."_

_Joey's hold tightened on the cans, shivering even worse than he'd been shivering outside. "Billy, I've got it."_

_"Okay, okay." Billy shrugged out of his coat and threw it over Joey's shoulders, exasperated. "I'm getting some chocolate. See you in the car."_

"Fuck," Billy muttered into the pillow, closing his eyes tighter than ever. He still wasn't sure whether Joey's look had meant confusion or just plain exhaustion, and by the time they hit the road again, his mother was driving psycho enough for him to _have_ to stay awake. Joey had been quiet over his Coke, and he ate more than half the chocolate before falling asleep again. Billy squirmed over to the opposite side of the bed, kicking the covers down. He could still see Joey curled awkwardly against the dark grey upholstery, clinging to the side of the seat so he wouldn't fall onto the floor when the car lurched or took a curve too fast. Slats of light from passing headlights struck his cheek at just the right angle, gliding down the length of his bundled up form like a caress. Joey had kept Billy's coat until they arrived. If Billy hadn't had to fucking navigate...

Billy shoved the pillow off the bed, breathing out slowly. Wasn't the first time he'd caught himself doing that, wanting to just hold Joey and _believe_. He couldn't, though, not the way he wanted to. It was still too close, too bottled up. He imagined it would be like dropping those cans of soda on the floor and then trying to open one. Besides, Billy wasn't sure what was painful and what wasn't, and Joey was so goddamned _quiet_ about—

"Get up! I'm leaving, so you'll have to get breakfast yourself."

"Gee, thanks!" Billy groaned, curling around his other pillow.

" _Up_ ," his mother insisted, rapping on the door a second time. "You're not letting your friend starve."

"I wasn't planning on it," Billy shot back. He sat up and glared at the door, but all he got in reply was retreating footsteps. Billy slipped out of bed without bothering to make it up (Mom would be pissed) and looked around for his t-shirt. Just a little too chilly to be wandering around without it, even if the heat was on. Billy rubbed his eyes, slipping into the hall without pulling his bedroom door shut behind him (no, she'd be fucking _livid_ ).

Billy's mother had put Joey in the guest room closest to Billy's, which was still kind of far—you had to pass _her_ room first, then take a right-hand turn at the green bathroom (at least it had a jacuzzi). The guest room was at the far end of the hall, a sort of unlikely conclusion to the series of expensive abstract prints on the walls. Joey hadn't been so tired on the night they arrived that he hadn't been choking back a few snickers when Billy showed him to his room. Yeah, so the paintings sucked. Billy would do better when he had his own house. Joey had just paused in the doorway, travel bag slung over his right shoulder, and given Billy a yawn and a smile that said _Good night, you're an even bigger dork than I am sometimes_.

Joey's door was closed. Billy stood there for a few seconds, experiencing what he usually liked to define as existential panic. If Joey was sleeping, Billy didn't want to disturb him. On the other hand, Joey was an early riser, and he had a way of sneaking off to places you'd never expect to find him, and he got away with it because he _knew_ no one would expect it. Easy as a shadow passing on the wall. Either that or Joey was sitting up and reading, which seemed more likely than the previous two. There weren't many places in the house that he could hide, and it was way too cold for him to consider going outside. He could catch a chill faster than anyone Billy knew, but he never said a word, only let his shivering give him away. Billy decided to take a chance and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Billy just stood there, kind of startled by the immediate answer. He heard a soft, unmistakeable sound—the turning of a page. Jesus, sometimes it was freaky, how well they could guess each other. Billy remembered after a few seconds that he'd been invited in, and blurted, "Okay."

Joey looked up when the door opened, pinning a small, dark paperback with a rose-colored spine open against his knee. Curled up against his pillows in a navy blue Yale sweatshirt that was too big for him (hand-me-down from his cousin, Billy recalled) and a pair of baggy plaid pajama pants that he only wore in the winter. He set the book aside on the corner of the bed and sat up Indian-style, stretching his arms high above his head. "Have a good night?" he asked, letting his hands flop down haphazardly in his lap.

Billy pretended his stomach hadn't just lurched, stepping up to the foot of the bed. "Yeah. It was okay. You?"

"I couldn't sleep for a while," Joey said, glancing out the window. "That wind's fierce."

"Took me a while to get used to it," Billy said, taking hold of his left wrist and flexing it. "It used to bug me when I was a kid."

"Are you cold or something?" Joey asked, dubiously eyeing Billy's t-shirt. "Walking around in your fucking underwear, man. It's not summer yet."

Billy opened his mouth to protest, partly hindered by the fact that his stomach had done that flip-thing again, only it was because Joey was still looking him over. He cleared his throat and began, "No, but I—"

"Bullshit, your knuckles are white. Get up here," Joey ordered, scooting over and patting a spot beside himself on the bed.

"Just when Mom tells me _I'm_ not supposed to let you starve, _you're_ acting like the fucking babysitter," Billy muttered, managing to force one knee up onto the mattress without wobbling and falling off. Miracle, considering his heart was pounding at about the speed of light. "Are you hungry?"

"Kind of," Joey said, snatching the book away at the last minute before Billy settled down beside him, propped against one badly squashed pillow. Still warm. "Is there anything to work with in the fridge, or did she just leave money for the diner like yesterday?"

"Stuff in the fridge, I think," Billy said, leaning back against the headboard. "She was really emphatic about me _making_ breakfast." He glanced over at Joey with an apologetic smile, wondering if Joey even had a clue that he could hardly keep his shit together. Joey was leaning, too, half-grinning like Billy was getting indignant about the wall prints again, his fingers idly stroking the book cover— _hey_. "What're you reading?"

Joey glanced down at the book, closing it and smoothing the front cover's bent corner with his thumb. "Poetry. Picked it up in the used section at Harvard Bookstore." He tensed up when Billy snatched it away, then relaxed with an indifferent sigh. "St. John of the Cross."

"Huh, they're in Spanish. Good thing they remembered the translations. We don't have Ric here." Billy flipped through the book, shocked to find a bunch of notes taken in green pen in the margins of just about every page. It wasn't Joey's handwriting; probably from some harrassed grad student trying to finish his or her thesis in time. Billy noticed that the spine was broken pretty close to the front. He let it fall open to the spot and scanned the right-hand page where the English was. The first two verses were underlined lightly in pencil, different from the rest of the green scrawling:

 

_Once in the dark of night  
when love burned bright with yearning, I arose  
(O windfall of delight!)  
and how I left none knows—  
dead to the world my house in deep repose;_

_in the dark, where all goes right,  
thanks to a secret ladder, other clothes,  
(O windfall of delight!)  
in the dark, enwrapped in those—  
dead to the world, my house in deep repose._

 

"He repeats himself a lot," Billy said, at a loss for something intelligent. God, he'd never taken the time to really look at this stuff, and Joey had his nose in it left and right, when no one else was looking.

"Is that all?" Joey asked incredulously. "Give me that, what the fuck are you looking... _oh_ ," Joey said softly, sitting back again. "That's definitely one of the good ones, so I can't claim you flipped to a dud. He does get kind of redundant sometimes, though."

Billy skimmed the rest of the poem, which didn't improve his stomach much. It was a fucking love song, didn't take a genius to see that. A pretty explicit one, too—line after line about _the fire inside_ , a lovers' tryst on a windy night outside cold castle walls. Falling down in the lilies, fingers on damp brows and stolen kisses. Billy flipped hastily back to the preface, scanning some lines he'd glimpsed when he first opened the book. "Jesus, the guy was a _monk_! Did the Church know about this?" Billy somehow managed without betraying the catch in his throat. He wanted to go back and read those last lines again.

"Duh," Joey said, grinning again. "They canonized him."

Billy gave him a disbelieving book, then found the perfect excuse to turn back. He cleared his throat and read, " _O dark of night, my guide! / night dearer than anything all your dawns discover! / O night drawing side to side/the loved and the lover— / he that the lover loves, lost in the other!_ You call that _religious_?"

"Yes," Joey said, almost defensively. "If you spent all your time alone in a cell praying and meditating, intimate communion with Christ was as close to sex as you got. In theory, beating off wasn't an option; it's considered a sin."

Billy closed the book and set it down between them, attempting nonchalance. "I guess so," he said casually, trying his best not to think about what else Joey did when he was reading alone.

"You guess so?" Joey asked, shaking his head. "You are going to be _really_ fucking lost this fall if you don't start reading this stuff."

"Will not!" Billy said, grateful of the diversion. "I won't be taking any classes like that."

"Yeah, but I will," Joey said, whisking the book away and tossing it at the foot of the bed. "You'll have to put up with me bitching about ten-page papers and learn how to fake it when I ask for advice."

Billy gave him a mock-reproachful look, folding his arms across his chest, even though his stomach still felt like it _was_ on fire. "I thought you liked ten-page papers."

"I don't like the _pressure_. I'll procrastinate till the last second, then fuck it up." Joey yawned and stretched.

"Shut up," Billy muttered, giving Joey a gentle push towards the edge of the mattress. "Do you want breakfast or not?"

Joey rolled off the bed abruptly, landing flat on his back against the carpet. "You bet," he said, outright grinning.

Billy let go of the pillow he'd been sitting on, finding that he'd squeezed it so hard and suddenly that his hands hurt.

* * *

"Eggs, bacon, milk, orange juice, blueberry jam," Billy reported, glancing over his shoulder at the sudden racket behind him. "Aw, fuck, did you knock the pans on the floor?"

"No, they fell out," Joey said indignantly. "Your Mom has no idea of how to put shit away."

"Preaching to the choir," Billy sighed. "So, can you do anything with any of that? All I know how to do is bacon and eggs."

"Do we have bread?" Joey asked, standing up with two large skillets, one in each hand.

Billy took them away promptly, setting them on the stove before Joey's furrowed brow turned into something more than consternation. "Yes. White and wheat."

Joey was immediately thoughtful. "I think I remember how to do French toast."

"You _think_ you remember?" Billy asked, turning away from the fridge with the bacon and eggs stacked under one arm. "Who taught you?"

"Dad," he said matter-of-factly, snatching the eggs and bacon away to set them on the counter beside the breadbox. 

"Are you kidding?"

"No," Joey said, opening the overhead cupboards until he found three plates and a mixing bowl. "We used to do it on Saturday mornings while Mom was busy doing something at church. Don't remember what."

Billy smiled in spite of himself, watching Joey find the measuring cups, sugar, salt, and pepper with equally astonishing swiftness. "Makes a mean French toast, huh? Like any good Italian?"

"Damn straight," Joey said, turning around with such a level, serious look in his dark eyes that it was just a few seconds until Billy cracked up, and Joey wasn't far behind him. 

They spent the next few minutes arguing over who'd do what. In the end, Billy got stuck with all-around egg duty. Billy assumed Joey would mix up the stuff for the toast, but apparently he had something coming. Joey told him to go back to the fridge and get the milk, then told him to start pouring it into the mixing bowl. Almost yelled because Billy didn't stop when he said so. After that: pinch of salt, pinch of pepper, few teaspoons of sugar. Five or six eggs, Joey said, since they both wanted three pieces. Better use a little more salt and pepper. _No_ more sugar, asshole. But what about—

"Go start the bacon," Joey said sharply, shoving the yellow package and a few loose eggs into Billy's hands. "I'll finish it."

"Now I know why Parker never gives you pots and pans," Billy mused, turning to the stove. "He'd lose half the kitchen staff."

"Dickhead," Joey muttered. "Move over..."

Luckily, the stove area was big enough for both of them to work with only the occasional bumping of elbows. Every once in a while, Billy would glance over once in a while to watch Joey bite his lip in fierce concentration over the toast, either unaware that Billy was watching or not giving a fuck. It all seemed to be paying off, though—one by one, he flipped perfectly brown-speckled pieces of toast from the lightly buttered pan onto the plate. Billy cursed under his breath and flipped the second batch of bacon just before it started to burn. 

Joey finished up the last piece of toast and carried the heaping plate over to the table. Billy heard the clink of the other two plates, then the sound of half a dozen drawers before Joey found the silverware. Billy carried his frying pan over to the counter and hastily scraped the rest of the bacon onto the plate with the eggs. He glanced over at the table and saw Joey sitting there patiently. Not smirking. Billy appreciated that and didn't mind having to hunt down the glasses and juice half so much as he would've otherwise. Maybe his mother had hidden some maple syrup way in the back behind— _ha_ , got it. Joey's eyes lit up when Billy set it on the table, then took a seat across from him.

"Breakfast is served," Billy said, spearing a few pieces of bacon on his fork. He hesitated for a second, then deposited them on Joey's plate.

Joey looked up, eyes still bright, not quite smiling. "No burnt pieces. I'm touched."

"Are you _sure_ you want breakfast?" Billy asked, pretending to claim the entire plate of French toast.

"Cut that out!" Joey stuck the nearest piece with his fork, snagging it just in time. He tossed it in the general direction of Billy's plate as Billy held the rest of the toast above his head, but it landed in Billy's lap instead.

"Good one," Billy said, setting the plate down and picking the errant piece of bread up by one corner. God, he could kiss Joey for being—well, for just _being_. Billy looked away and focused on pouring them both some orange juice. 

"You just love me for my cooking," Joey muttered, but he was smiling as he flipped another two pieces onto Billy's plate and took the rest for himself.

Billy almost choked on his first bite, but he managed to swallow and chase it with a swig of juice without looking like a douchebag. Maybe there'd be time for more love poetry later, or something. He wished the wind would start up again. At least it would give him a decent excuse for an attempt at cuddling, if he could even work up the nerve to try. All Joey had to do was flash Billy another one of those looks over his breakfast, and he'd lose it all over—aw, _fuck_.

* * *

Joey wandered into the living room while Billy was watching a rerun of some kids' show on Nickelodeon that he couldn't remember the name of. He peered over Billy's shoulder, still drying his hair with a hand towel. He lost interest after a few seconds, then dropped the towel on top of Billy's head before molding his hands over it, rubbing Billy's own wet hair vigorously. "Missed a few spots," Joey said. "It's dripping down your collar."

Billy completely lost track of the dialogue, trying to concentrate on Joey's touch through the thick cotton, because hell, when would he get to feel _that_ again? "Thanks. I was too lazy to get up."

"No kidding," Joey said, whisking the towel away all too soon. He tossed it on the coffee table and walked around the couch, flopping down beside Billy, so close that their shoulders touched. Lazy, casual. Probably didn't even realize what he was doing. Billy bit his tongue as Joey settled in a bit closer with a satisfied sigh. He smelled like fresh soap and clean clothes. Dark, thickly-woven long sleeved shirt, pale corduroys. Jesus _Christ_. He looked good even at a sidelong glance, even though he hadn't quite gained back the few pounds he'd lost over the holidays. He remembered the embrace that started it all, that day Joey got back from Christmas break. Joey was slender anyway, but God, he'd felt like next to nothing in Billy's arms – or maybe that was because Billy hadn't dared hug him too tightly.

Billy cleared his throat, shifting into a more upright position. Bad move, though—that meant Joey slid down a bit and ended up leaning on his shoulder, limp and indifferent. Fucking _hell_. Billy glanced across the room, studying the sway of the sea oats growing up along the deck. No more than a breeze stirred them, and the sky seemed pretty clear. If Joey didn't get too comfortable, maybe they could—"Hey, um, you want to go for a walk?"

Joey turned his head to look up at Billy, which resulted in his cheek getting smooshed against Billy's shoulder, and for a second that was unbelievably funny. He tilted his head up just far enough to glance out the window, then back at Billy uncertainly. "If it's not too cold, sure."

"I can't promise you that," Billy said, feeling reckless mostly because it was impossible to feel any other way when Joey looked at him without blinking. "But I can promise you my coat again, if that helps."

"Keep your fucking coat, Billy," Joey said, sitting up straight beside him. " _Yes_ , I'll go for a walk."

"Great," Billy said, grinning in spite of himself. "Might be just in time for low tide."

In fact, they'd all but missed it. Joey was ten steps ahead of him the whole time, racing the freezing breakers for bits of shell or anything else that looked remotely strange. Lacking gloves, Billy shoved his hands in his pockets and watched. Joey didn't keep much; most of what he pushed around in the sand ended up dropped again or just left there, but every once in a while, he'd brush something off and tuck it into his coat pocket. Just as often, he'd look back at Billy as if to say, _C'mon! You're missing out here!_ After a little while, Billy couldn't take it. He jogged clumsily along in his father's old boots until he'd caught up. Almost immediately, Joey dragged him down into a crouch.

"I saw something," he said, starting to dig with those deft, curious fingers, as if he didn't mind the cold.

Billy nodded, just watching. "If you say so."

Joey paused and looked up, tilting his head at Billy. "You don't like beach-combing?"

"I used to," Billy said with a shrug, "but Mom would always throw out the stuff I brought home, so it was hardly worth it."

"Your Mom needs to loosen up," Joey said decisively, and went right back to digging.

It paid off eventually. Billy was surprised when Joey managed to pry up this...er, well, _thing_. It looked like a piece of blown glass—a perfectly round miniature balloon that glistened blue-violet in the sun when Joey washed it off. Joey held it up in front of Billy's face, shifting it in his grip. "Know what this is?"

"No," Billy said truthfully.

"I heard that fishermen stick these in woven pockets at the edges of their nets to keep them floating. Sometimes they wash up. Real collector's item, just like beach glass."

"Is that color worth a fortune or something?" Billy asked hopefully, taking it from Joey to study it more closely.

"I don't think so," Joey said. "People find them in about every color you can think of. Snuffy told me he has a red one and a green one."

Billy handed the globe back to Joey, lingering over his fingers for a few seconds as he pressed it into Joey's hand. "Merry Christmas."

"Too early for that," Joey said, shoving it back at him, which resulted in an interesting tangle of their fingers that Joey didn't make any move to fix, except maybe to make it more comfortable. "More like Happy Birthday."

Billy couldn't think clearly enough to respond, but he blundered ahead anyway. "Eighteen's useless. Not like I can buy you booze or anything. Besides, you already got me a present."

Joey frowned at him, then stared down at the glass globe. "No, I didn't. I haven't had the cha—"

"Yes," Billy insisted, tilting Joey's chin up with his free hand before his breath decided to come back and fucking ruin everything. "You _did_."

They walked back to the house hand in hand, hardly saying a word. The globe ended up in Billy's pocket because Joey wouldn't take it back. Once they got inside, Joey kicked his boots off and hung his coat up on the closest peg, then made a beeline for the sofa. Billy pulled his own boots off and watched Joey tug the old quilt down over himself, shivering. He didn't look back, but Billy was beginning to understand something. Billy hung his coat up and took a deep breath, approaching the couch in no particular hurry. They _definitely_ had time.

"Are you cold now?" Joey asked, smiling up at him with faintly bluish lips. He flipped the quilt back with one arm, holding his arms open wide.

For a second, Billy felt like smacking himself to make sure he was awake. "Yeah, actually," he said instead, trembling a little as he settled in beside Joey, tugging the quilt snugly around them. "Freezing."

"Tired," Joey murmured, and his head was tucked up under Billy's chin before he could even get his arms around Joey. He yawned against Billy's shoulder, sounded completely exhausted. "Your Mom was banging around at like six-thirty this morning."

Billy took a deep breath and pressed his cheek against Joey's hair, holding him just close enough for...comfort, flirting, what the fuck _was_ this? A little bit of everything, maybe. Definitely comfort. Billy nuzzled the top of Joey's head cautiously and murmured, "I'll lock her out of the house, how about that?"

"Mmm." Joey sounded half asleep already. "Yeah."

 _Love you_ , Billy thought, letting his eyes drift shut. _Not just for your cooking, either_.

* * *

_Cali stood there staring down at the steps, almost sneering. "There has been a change of plans. You will make a better hostage."_

_Jorge had Billy's hands pinned so tightly behind his back that it hurt to think about moving, but he couldn't help it. "You fucker, he's—"_

_"Silence!" Cali shouted, taking a few steps down, sure to veer to one side, mocking Billy with that awful smile. "Yes, he is hurt. If he does not bleed to death, we will bargain with him." He looked up, scanning the frozen figures scattered on the quad. Cali shouted something in Spanish, then turned to the Headmaster, who was still hovering at his shoulder. "Take him to the infirmary. My men will accompany you." Cali turned away abruptly, turning to give Billy another of his long, cold looks before kneeling down beside Joey._

_"You can walk, yes?"_

_Joey was curled up on his side, face ashen as he clutched at his left shoulder. His shirt, his hooded jacket, his right hand—all covered in blood. He didn't even look at Cali to give his answer, just kept staring down at the concrete. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth. His breath was coming in short, labored pants._

_Cali nodded, then stood up again. "Good. And you," he said, contuining down the staircase while the Headmaster and one of Cali's men helped Joey to his feet. "William Tepper. Do you know what the penalty is for interfering with one of my men?" He was just a few feet away now, staring down at Billy with unmasked contempt. Jorge's grip tightened on Billy's wrists, driving them hard into the wounds on his back._

_"No!" Billy couldn't keep from shouting; he screwed his eyes shut on the sting of tears. He dug the toe of his tennis shoe into the grass, trying for purchase. He had to get out of this, had to get to Joey, had to—_

_"Then you are not as smart as you think," Cali said calmly, pressing something cold and hard up behind Billy's ear._

_Billy opened his eyes and tried to twist away, ignoring the fire that seared through his skin. "I don't fucking care! You could've killed—"_

_Cali rattled off another order in Spanish, and Jorge pinned Billy flat on his stomach—knees, hands, gun, everything slammed hard onto Billy's back. Billy screamed this time, he couldn't see where they were taking—"Joey!"_

_Cali shoved the barrel of the gun in tighter just as Billy caught a glimpse of Joey turning his head as they ushered him through the door. He heard the trigger's empty click and felt Cali lift the gun away, only to bring the barrel down hard at the base of Billy's skull. Billy heard something else far off as the explosion of pain drove darkness through him, but it wasn't Joey's voice._

_"I have no time for this. Jorge, leave him. Now his friends will have no trouble holding him back."_

Billy woke with a start, choking for air. Calm, darkened white ceiling. Lying up against the arm of the sofa. Joey curled up against him under the quilt they shared, warm and breathing in his arms. _Breathing_. Billy closed his eyes and sucked in a lungful of air, then bent his head to Joey's shoulder and rested it there. He had to get up and stretch, or else his left leg was going to fall off. Pins and needles, twisted under him at an odd angle. He shifted carefully, sliding off the cushion and transferring Joey over to lie against the back of the couch. Joey tensed and clung to Billy's shirt, making a soft noise.

"Bathroom," Billy whispered. "Be right back."

Joey relaxed again, letting go without opening his eyes. Billy brushed Joey's hair back and tugged the quilt up over him, hesitant to go even if it just meant a short trip up the hall and back.

Billy fumbled for the bathroom light, squinting as it flickered on. He blinked at his reflection in the mirror, checking to see if he'd been crying. Almost felt like it, his head was pounding with the memory's aftershock, leaving him as cold as the broad white tiles under his feet. Billy grabbed a fresh hand towel from under the sink, set it aside, and turned the water on. He let it warm up a bit before splashing his face. The water felt good on his eyelids.

Still drying off, Billy flipped the lightswitch and stepped back into the hall. Dark, quiet, no sound but the grandfather clock in his mother's bedroom. They must've slept for a few hours, or maybe the weather had gone bad again. He didn't know what time it was, but it didn't matter. His mother wouldn't be home until midnight anyway; her Cape friends threw the loudest, longest parties ever. Billy stood there for a few seconds, then flung the towel over the doorknob. He didn't care about the time, but he _did_ care about something else. 

Billy crept into Joey's room, finding it more or less how they'd left it that morning, except Joey had carelessly made the bed. The book was still at the foot of the mattress, balanced so close to the edge that it was a wonder it didn't slide off. Billy sat down and picked it up, flipping to the break in the spine. He wanted to make sure he'd read what he read, and sure enough, there it was—a verse tender enough to move even the poetry-ignorant. Billy read it over a few more times, letting the words sink in. Joey had made a few more pencil marks, mostly brackets or stars. Seemed like he read this one more often than the rest. 

Billy stood up and closed the book, certain he could remember all five lines. When he tossed it back down on the bed, a slip of white paper tucked into the last pages of the book was dislodged. He could see the imprint of writing on the other side of it, ghostly traces of Joey's familiar handwriting. Billy caught the slip of paper by the corner, squinting at it in the dim light. Joey's writing was much more hasty than usual, which made it difficult to read. Difficult, but not impossible. Billy sat down and held it up so it caught the light from the window over the bed, carefully making out the words:

 

_I'm sure that you would  
laugh at me for this,  
for picturing you  
as God Incarnate._

_I don't think your shoes  
would match_ other clothes _  
at any level of allegory:  
torn-up robes under  
tarnished armor. Only  
your skin makes sense   
of anything: lilies, life._

_We have castle walls.  
We have time. We've seen  
that Resurrection isn't  
just a romance myth._

_If God had a lover,  
I'm sure that the world   
laughed much harder  
than you ever could._

 

Billy let the paper fall in his lap, stunned. Yeah, he'd known Joey was a decent writer, but he hadn't known that Joey wrote poetry like...like _this_. Joey, who didn't admit to anything more than he had to; Joey, who liked to keep you guessing. Joey, who didn't like to admit things even to himself. Just— _Joey_. 

Billy read the poem one more time to make sure he wasn't reading into it the wrong way, but really, how the fuck else was he supposed to read into it? Actually, he wasn't supposed to be reading it at all. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Billy tucked the slip of paper back into the book hastily, as closely as he could guess at where it had been before. He would be in enough trouble as it was; Joey could remember exactly where he tucked shit in his notebook, and Billy was pretty sure he'd remember exactly where he put this poem, too. How long ago had he written it? After the end of October last year, for sure. Maybe even last night. Billy swore again and put the book back down. He headed for the door in a hurry, even if leaving the room meant jumping from the pot into the fire.

"You okay?" Joey was kneeling on the couch, twisted around and leaning over the back, anxious.

Billy walked around to the front and sat down beside him, leaving a little space between them. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You must've been dreaming," Joey said, turning around and settling down beside him, scooting towards him. "I think I heard you say something a couple of times. I couldn't understand it."

"Must've been," Billy said, shrugging. He kept his eyes fixed on the coffee table, unable to meet Joey's. Not good.

Joey took hold of his hand unexpectedly, squeezing it against the couch cushion. "Why are you lying to me?"

Billy had to turn his head, force himself to look at Joey. "Because it's something you really don't need to hear about."

"If it's what I think it is," Joey said quietly, "then what the fuck do you think you're trying to protect me from?"

Billy opened his mouth, then closed it again, clenching his eyes shut. "Joey, I don't– "

"Want to hurt me?" Joey asked, taking Billy's hand fully into his own. "Billy, we've _both_ been hurt, okay? We're never going to forget it. You think I've just...that I can just erase..."

Joey paused, letting go of Billy's hand. He made sure Billy was watching him—one hard, sure flash of his eyes as he nodded—and squirmed out of his shirt, dropping it carelessly on the floor. Joey tilted his head ever so slightly, glancing down at the two nasty white scars, one on either side of his collarbone, then glanced back up at Billy. "I see these every day," he said softly. "I'm stuck with it."

"If I had gotten away from Hank a split second sooner, you wouldn't be." Billy closed his eyes again, but the tears escaped anyway.

"No," Joey said angrily, grabbing Billy by the shoulders. "If you hadn't gotten away when you _did_ , I wouldn't be alive."

"Don't say that," Billy whispered.

"You heard everything they said," Joey continued, entirely too calm. "Not bad enough to be fatal, but if you hadn't gotten us out of there the day after—"

"I'd have fucking killed him just for costing you your left hand," Billy said with a bitter laugh.

Joey let go of Billy's right shoulder and flexed his fingers right in front of Billy's face. "Works fine, doesn't it?"

Billy grabbed Joey's hand without thinking, pressing it to his cheek. "You keep freaking me out. Lifting heavy shit all the time, rolling off the fucking bed..."

"Billy, I haven't needed the sling since February," Joey reminded him, wiggling his fingers against Billy's cheek.

Billy grinned helplessly, wiping his nose with the back of his free hand. "Yeah, I know. It's just..." Billy looked up and went absolutely still.

Joey's eyes were wide and terrified as he leaned over, so close that he breathed against Billy's lips. "I know."

Billy slid his palms up Joey's back while Joey leaned in even closer and kissed him, soft and apologetic. He pulled back almost immediately, lowering his eyes, trembling under Billy's touch. "I never said anything to you," he whispered. "And I almost—"

"Joey," Billy whispered, pulling him in closer, "I read your poem. You said everything, okay?"

Joey froze almost like he meant to pull away, but instead, he leaned in and kissed Billy harder. Billy opened his mouth a little, hands trembling on Joey's shoulders. He could feel the smooth scar tissue under his fingertips where one of the bullets had gone clean through. Four fucking hours of surgery. No permanent tissue damage, no nerve damage. Just broken bone, torn muscle, and other scars that no one else would ever see. Jesus, Joey tasted wonderful. He was shaking, too, about to wobble over into Billy because his right arm couldn't hold him up for much longer. Billy broke the kiss and nuzzled Joey's cheek, taking hold of Joey's arm. 

"Here," Billy whispered, tugging Joey into his lap. "More comfortable," he explained, squirming down a bit further so he could stretch out on the cushions, head resting against the arm of the couch.

Joey supported his weight on all fours till Billy had gotten himself situated, but it took Billy's arms around him to get him to settle down again. "Yeah," Joey murmured, staring at Billy's chin. Breathing fast, nervous, like maybe he hadn't dared to dream things would get this far.

Billy ran his hands down from Joey's shoulderblades to the small of his back, lifting his head up for another kiss. Joey seemed glad of the distraction—yeah, that was familiar, they could at least do that without fucking up. Joey moaned when Billy parted his lips this time, tasting Billy's tongue with a shy dip of his own. Billy skimmed his fingers up from the small of Joey's back to tangle in his hair, moaning in reply, shaking with the same desparate longing he'd been forced to snuff out that morning. He could feel Joey hard against his belly, tensing whenever either of them moved enough to rub against the other. Billy tilted his head to one side and pressed the kiss even deeper, trailing his fingers back down to Joey's waist. _Oh, God_.

"Needed this," Joey whispered between kisses, "for...so _fucking_ long...don't know how..."

"It's not like I've done this before, either," Billy blurted, holding Joey still long enough to find his mouth again.

Joey sputtered into the kiss, pulling away again. "No, I mean—well, yeah, that too—I mean that I don't know how I could've been so stupid."

"Shy and stupid are two different things," Billy pointed out, kissing Joey's chin. "I was shy, too."

Joey slid lower against Billy's body, sending a shiver through both of them. "I...yeah," Joey whispered, head dropping to Billy's shoulder, fingers tightening on Billy's arms. " _Billy_..."

Billy closed his eyes and kissed Joey's forehead, trying to regain his composure. Soothing strokes up and down Joey's back, touching Joey because, finally, he _could_. "Whatever you want," Billy murmured.

Joey's laugh startled him. "I don't know about you, but I'm gonna come whether we get these clothes off or not."

Billy's breath caught, but he managed to carry off a mock-serious tone. "Then this situation _definitely_ needs some work."

"Billy, we're on your _Mom's_ couch."

"So?"

Joey kissed Billy's neck, exasperated. "Your Mom's _white_ couch."

"I know, I know," Billy sighed. "It's a problem."

Joey propped himself up again, giving Billy a steady look. "Whatever I want?"

"Anything," Billy said softly, leaning up to brush a kiss against Joey's mouth.

"Take me to bed."

Billy hugged Joey tightly and sat up, wrapping Joey's arms around his neck. "Can't think of anything I want more myself."

For once, Joey didn't seem too put out that Billy hadn't made his bed. He had remembered to pick his shirt up, and ceremoniously let it fall on Billy's floor, glancing up at Billy with a glint in his eyes that was more than just the early sunset through the window. If Billy had a dollar for each time he'd stopped breathing that day—but this sight was worth all of them, Joey standing there with early evening sunlight washing over his skin, _waiting_. Billy finally remembered to breathe and peeled out of his shirt, dropping it a lot less deliberately than Joey had dropped his own. 

"Wait a second," Joey said, stepping over to the window. He played with the mechanism for a minute, figuring out how to unlock it. He pushed it open a fraction, stepping back with a violent shiver.

Billy stepped up behind Joey, slipping his arms around him. "You want to freeze, too?"

"No," Joey said, turning his head for a kiss. "I want to keep warm."

Billy turned him around without breaking the kiss, staggering back towards the bed. Joey laughed when they finally had to pull apart, and Billy collapsed back onto the mattress like he had no idea where it had come from. Joey leaned down to kiss him again, but Billy held him at arms' length.

"Clothes, remember?" It came out strangled, hardly sounding like him, but that was mostly because Joey had dropped to his knees and was unfastening Billy's jeans.

"Didn't plan on forgetting," Joey said, looking up at Billy as he tugged at Billy's cuffs. "A little help, maybe?"

Billy stood up and shoved his jeans down, tripping to one side in an effort to kick them off. By the time he'd succeeded, Joey's corduroys were on the floor and holy _fuck_ Joey was watching him so intently that, yeah, grabbing him and kissing the daylights out of him was pretty much the only reasonable option left.

"Why the hell," Joey gasped, fingers wild up and down Billy's back, "are we _still_ —"

"Like this," Billy whispered, steering them around so he could ease Joey down onto the mattress. No more teasing, no more playing. Joey lay stretched out as Billy crawled over him, looking suddenly anxious. _Calm down a second, just_... Soft, slow kisses, as slow as his fingers stroking Joey's thigh, making Joey quiver and moan into his mouth. Trail of soft kisses down his neck and over to his shoulder, lingering there while Joey's shaking fingers traced patterns across Billy's chest.

"Oh, God," Joey gasped, hands slipping down to Billy's hips. " _Billy_."

Billy nuzzled his way back up to Joey's lips and kissed him, panicking for a second. _Please what? Touch him?_ Billy trailed his fingers from Joey's collarbone down to his belly, gliding over smooth, warm skin until Joey jerked up under his fingers. Billy whimpered and pressed back, settling halfway on top of him. Joey guided his hand out of the way impatiently, but not before pausing to glide his fingers over Billy's cock in turn, eyes fixed on Billy's with fierce intent. 

When Joey wound his arms around Billy and pressed up a second time, Billy stopped thinking. Kisses, faster and deeper. Hard, helpless thrusts that pulled cries from Joey like Billy had never imagined, until Joey clutched him so hard that Billy thought that neither of them would ever breathe again. Bellies wet, both of them shaking. Joey was already limp under Billy when he collapsed, clinging tight.

"Joey," Billy whispered, closing his eyes against Joey's damp cheek. He'd kiss the breath back into Joey as soon as he could move.

Joey's hands stirred, one hand gliding up to find Billy's hair, combing through it lazily. "I'm okay," he whispered back. "Just..."

"Yeah," Billy agreed, nuzzling Joey's neck. He tasted like salt, the sea.

Joey brushed his fingertips across Billy's cheek, then skimmed them up Billy's temple to trace his forehead. "I love you."

"You too," Billy replied, shivering with an unexpected breeze across his back. He remembered the window, drawing in his breath. " _I cherished...you, my own, there in air from plumes of cedar blown._ "

Joey went still, then laughed. "You missed a word."

"I should get at least get credit for personalizing it."

"All the credit in the world," Joey agreed, and kissed him.


	3. Holiday Fragment

Shaken and half asleep, Joey stumbled out of bed and staggered over to his desk. Stupid fucking phone. He managed to grab the cord and yank it off the hook mid-ring. He almost tripped over a stack of books as he leaned over to grab the mouthpiece.

"Yeah?" Joey yawned, slumping into his chair. If it was Ketelson calling to beg for notes on yesterday's anthropology lecture, he'd—

"Forgive me for waking you, Joseph."

Joey blinked and reached over to hit his computer's mouse, jarring the Mac to life. "Dad? Isn't it..." He stared at the screen and winced, wishing he hadn't killed the screensaver. Couldn't remember what he was going to say.

Joey's father sighed. "I thought perhaps you were studying."

"It's two in the morning," Joey said, abruptly realizing what that meant. "You're still in Rome." Probably sounded like an accusation, but Joey didn't give a shit. His dad should've been home two days ago.

"I'm afraid so," Albert Trotta said. "I've been delayed."

Joey tangled his fingers in the phone cord. "Is that all?"

"Yes, if you want to know the truth," Albert said, shortening his tone to match Joey's. "I'll spare you the—"

"Actually, I don't—"

"—details, but—"

"Gee, thanks," Joey retorted, stifling another yawn.

"I need you to listen for five seconds." Albert sounded almost as tired as Joey felt.

"Yeah, okay. Sorry."

"I'll be brief," Albert said, "so you can get back to sleep. I won't be flying home until the 27th."

Joey's stomach lurched him awake. "But Dad, I'm—"

"Can you leave your car with somebody up there and take the train?"

"I don't...I think...yeah, but—" Joey wrapped the cord around his fist and closed his eyes. "Billy has a car, too. We could take—"

"License plate?" Albert asked tersely.

Joey opened his eyes again, shaking his head. "Connecticut, why?"

"As long as he doesn't mind driving." Albert sounded relieved. "Offer to pay for the gas."

Joey rolled his eyes. "Dad, relax."

"You too, son," Albert replied, using his reassuring tone, which never really worked. "Good night."

Joey let go of the phone cord and raked his fingers through his hair. " _Giorno_."

"I'm sorry," Albert sighed. "I'll make it up to you."

"Whatever. See you."

"Take care of yourself."

Joey hung up without a response, staring at his desktop for a few seconds before reaching over to snag his sweatshirt off the bed post. He struggled into it and stood up, cursing the static that prickled his scalp.

The hall was dark except for a silver of light from the room next to his own. Not bothering with slippers, Joey closed his door quietly behind him and moved with careful steps toward Billy's. A few muted snores from the closed door at the end of the hall told him that Greg was out cold. Pre-med, the poor guy.

Billy's door opened before Joey could reach for the knob. "Heard you on the phone," Billy said, reaching for Joey's hand and leading him inside. "Want me to go kick Ketelson's ass this time?"

"Wasn't him," Joey said, reaching back to make sure Billy's door was closed. "Dad."

Billy led Joey over to his desk and sat down, tugging Joey into his lap. "I thought he was in Italy."

"He is, but he should've been back Sunday," Joey said, catching Billy's arm around his waist and pulling it tight. "We'll be on our own for Christmas, and he decided we have to take your car."

Billy whistled and kissed the nape of Joey's neck. "I don't wanna know."

"I didn't ask." Joey slouched enough to let his head fall back onto Billy's shoulder, watching as Billy clicked half a dozen baffling windows down onto the taskbar. PC-convert traitor. "Still working, huh?"

Before Billy had the chance to answer, a message box popped up on his screen. Exasperated, he sighed and let go of the mouse, typing a response one-handed. "I was, but asshole here interrupted."

Joey sat up straight and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the chat. Looked strange, unfamiliar. Stupid ICQ.

 

 **snuffydoesyale:** earth to billy  
 **snuffydoesyale:** wtf, are you still there?  
 **Ulysses1870:** yes, would you hold on?

 

"Why did you turn that on?"

"I didn't," Billy said, sounding irritated. "It boots up automatically, forgot about it. Besides, most of the guys use AOL."

Joey grabbed the keyboard. "I'll handle this."

Billy wrapped both arms around Joey's waist and kissed his shoulder. "Be my guest."

Joey grinned, thinking for a second about just shutting the program down. Billy was warm and comfortable, and his bed was right behind them. He wouldn't fuck with Snuffy for that long, anyway. Joey started to type.

 

 **Ulysses1870:** don't you have finals?  
 **snuffydoesyale:** dickhead  
 **Ulysses1870:** told you, harvard's the place to be.  
 **snuffydoesyale:** finals in january are for pussies  
 **Ulysses1870:** only uncivilized universities don't have study period.  
 **snuffydoesyale:** excuse me?

 

"You're terrible," Billy murmured, kissing behind Joey's ear.

"Yep," Joey said absently, leaning back with a shiver. He flexed his fingers over the keys.

 

 **snuffydoesyale:** we HAVE study period  
 **Ulysses1870:** not as long as ours.  
 **snuffydoesyale:** you asked me if we had it about ten mins ago, i told you yes

 

"Shit," Joey muttered.

Billy kissed Joey's neck apologetically.

 

 **snuffydoesyale:** how's the sleepover, joey?  
 **Ulysses1870:** Loser. I just got here.  
 **snuffydoesyale:** hey billy, don't fuck him too hard..... won't be able to sit still for exams

 

" _Asshole_ ," Joey hissed. "I'll—"

Billy caught Joey's wrists and held him still. " _Hey_ , Joey. He was at some Christmas party. He's smashed."

Joey gritted his teeth. "No excuse."

"Get up," Billy said calmly, swiveling his chair to one side. "I'll take care of goodbyes for you."

Joey nodded and stood up, then leaned over Billy's shoulder to watch.

 

 **Ulysses1870:** hey, snuffy?  
 **snuffydoesyale:** yeah?  
 **Ulysses1870:** i'm gonna tell hank he needs to visit you more often. good night.

 

Billy closed the window and shut ICQ down. He swiveled the chair again and looked up at Joey. "You're tired," he said, taking Joey's hands gently this time.

Joey flushed warm, suddenly wishing he hadn't put on his sweatshirt. "Kind of. You still have work."

Billy made a _pfft_ sound and stood up, wrapping Joey's arms around himself. "It's not due till the 18th. As long as I get it done before we leave."

"Whatever you say." Joey pulled him close, pressing his fingers into Billy's t-shirt. He slid his fingers down and caught the hem, teasing at Billy's sweatpants. Billy's back was all hot, smooth skin, better than any blankets.

Billy caught his breath. "I was on my way."

"Your room's fine," Joey said.

Billy's eyes flicked toward the door. "Greg?"

"Sleeping like a log, only logs don't snore."

Billy laughed. "That guy's gonna be dead before we're seniors." Immediately serious again, he brushed his lips against Joey's cheek. "I'm just gonna let Snuffy overestimate my prowess. I'm too tired for that."

Joey leaned into Billy's kiss until he felt dizzy. "Not too tired for _this?_ "

Billy nuzzled Joey's neck, slipping his fingers up and under Joey's sweatshirt. "Never." 

Joey was always shocked at how comfortable the dorm mattresses were. It probably helped that Billy used an egg crate and the 450-count sheets his mother had made a big show of giving him on the day they moved in, but still. Sometimes Joey tried to imagine the look she'd have on her face if she ever caught them like this. Curled up naked in her fancy sheets, kissing. She hadn't even realized what happened on the Cape, or at least Billy didn't think so.

"God, what the hell was I thinking?" Billy groaned, his voice muffled in the pillow. "You're way more interesting than Econ."

Joey laughed and blew a raspberry against Billy's collarbone, wrapping both legs around him. "Interesting. Just _interesting?_ "

Billy ran his fingers through Joey's hair and took a deep breath. "Look, vocab is _not_ high priority right now."

"Let's hope it is when your term paper comes due," Joey said, tugging at Billy's hair.

Billy lifted his head and gave Joey a look. "Gee, thanks. How romantic."

"Mine's not done, either," Joey reassured him, pressing a soft kiss to Billy's lips. _I know you've never stressed out over work like this in your life. That's why I'm here, that's why I'm holding you._

"Joey." Faint breath between kisses, taste of Billy's tongue sweet on his own. "Mm, _Joey_."

"Love you," Joey whispered. His heart still hammered every time he said it, as if he couldn't believe it any more than he could back in March. "Billy..."

"I love you, too," Billy said, not even bothering to lower his voice. He kissed Joey again and started to move—slow, lazy rocking that made Joey squirm.

"Can you sleep in?" Joey shifted under Billy, thrust up at a tighter angle. _God, you're more turned on than I thought._

Billy moaned sharply, hiding his face in the pillow again. "Yeah...wasn't planning on going...library till..."

"Shhh," Joey whispered, nuzzling the curve of Billy's neck. "Good."


	4. Return

The phone isn't working. Shit. I can't believe this. It's not like the weather's terrible in New Haven, and Billy gets good reception there. His mother made sure of that; I think she bought him the phone. That's really fucking funny. Like he doesn't have enough money of his own to buy ten fucking cell phones, and here I am racking up another huge bill because four years of college wasn't enough. Great, fucking great. I'm just going to hang up. No answer.

If Snuffy was here, I'd have to bum a smoke even though I don't. If I could just stop looking out the window, maybe I'd get somewhere. Yeah, away from all this fucking static. It's in the air; it's all over the place. Reminds me of this dream I used to have: stuck in a tall building, staircase after staircase. I keep running from floor to floor, higher and higher. Blood all over, which is the most random thing—you'd think I'd know if I'd been stabbed or shot or something, but I can't feel it. I just see it. And on every floor there's someone, someone strange who doesn't give a shit. A nun teaching a little girl to read at beat-up old school desks, a bunch of guys I did or didn't hang out with. When I reach the top floor, no one's there. Just more desks. And the window's open, and it's dark, so dark. Thick air, crackling, enough to suffocate me with sparks. When I get to the window and look down, I see nothing but flood-water rising and think, _I am so royally screwed_. I've never been in a flood, but I still don't like hard rain.

The kitchen's too hot for it to be winter, something wrong with the heating system again. Never helps when I hit the vent; it likes Billy's pounding better. Those chicks next door never complain to the landlord about anything, and here we are making phonecalls every other week about the damn heating. It's a pretty nice place, but why busted heating? It's fucking February. Maybe Billy hits the vent too hard. Wouldn't that just be the case. This water tastes stale, but I forgot to refill the filter pitcher. Dump, drain, clink. I don't feel like doing dishes. There's fucking static in the sink, even. Cold window, cold glass, but no cold water.

No, Osiris, I will _not_ feed you. You fuck up my teacups one more time and you'll starve. Jesus Christ.

If Billy was here, he'd flip all the lights on. I'm walking around in the dark and glaring at things, isn't that bad for your eyes? I can't help it, I don't want to be seen. No one can see me here. Maybe the damn cat, but he's on the windowsill, nose pressed to the glass. Fucking cold glass. Cambridge never stops shining, all those lights, but I just want to hide and nothing will let me sleep. Not the rain, not the air, not myself. I wrote for five fucking hours today, who am I kidding? My own fault. I should've gone with him. Even if I can't stand Barbara, Jesus, I should've gone with him. What the fuck am I doing here? I just stepped on something.

More of a stumble than a hop to the bathroom, _fuck_ that stings. Flip the light, _FUCK_ that hurts. Head might stop pounding after a second, long enough to tell what's wrong would be nice. Fucking cold toilet seat. Wait, that's blood on the tile. Blood. Dammit, my foot. _Osiris!_ Did you break...

Yeah, I should've gone with him. Oh, God, I should've gone. It's fucking cold in here and we're out of Band-Aids. Shit.

I wish we didn't have pale carpet in the bedroom, but there you go. Old sock, good as new. Not turning any more lights on. I just know I'll get a splinter from the drawer, if the candle's even in there. Oh. Well, that was easy, okay. Candle and matches, we're all set. Or I'm all set. Something. I probably lost the candle holder someplace behind the bed. Stupid bedstead that holds stuff like a shelf. Easy to knock shit off, ha, really easy. Oh, God, I wish we could. Fucking cold apartment and no lights and a cat-scratch from a teacup. Maybe I should be writing a novel instead of a dissertation. Too many _shoulds_ , and fuck, it _hurts_.

We need rugs in this hall or something, the floor's slippy. Billy shoved me for the hell of it a couple weeks ago and I yanked him right down too, who was he kidding? There's not enough room to horse around; you're lucky if you don't bruise your ass. _I meant to catch you_ , he said.

Yeah, fuck, well. Fucking catch me now. I should've gone, I knew it.

The candle lights easy, one breath of flame and the match is smoking out on the sandstone holder thingie. Billy thought it looked nice; I thought it was a safety precaution. It all works out. Except when he's not here and it's goddamn raining. Even the flame hurts to look at, even the dusk is coming in and I don't want it to. You have no idea. I hate days like this. I hate what days like this do to life; I hate having to remember because it's raining and because Osiris broke a fucking teacup. I can't even make tea. We're out of Darjeeling, and Lady Grey won't do. Citrus. That's no good on days like today.

I tried sleeping here a little bit ago, but the couch is empty, and it's cold, too. It's not every day you wish you were Dante, not every day you think you might need a fucking smoke even though you've never smoked in your life, and now there's a candle flickering across the room and what the hell is that noise? Outside, somewhere outside. Cold and static, but not quiet. It's all wrong, the ceiling's all wrong; I can't even make out patterns here. I can't draw _nothing_. I can't get comfortable because I'm leaning on the damn portable. Damn phone. Redial. Get me through, do you _hear_ me, get...

Drawing is a really good idea.

The paper's not cold, no. There's dust on it because Billy stashes it behind the couch when I'm not looking. He's not here so I can yell and say _it goes in the closet, dickhead_. So I don't put some shit away, I put almost everything else away. Not my fault he likes sprawling on the floor when we have a perfectly good couch that isn't even tacky because Billy can at least furniture-shop to save his life. It's a comfortable couch. I'd rather be on the floor.

I'd draw the candle, but that's lame. Osiris, get the fuck out of here. Charcoal on your face, that what you wanted? Yeah, I thought so. Go play with the fish. Leave me alone. No pawprints on the sketchbook this time, got it? Fish. I said go —godfuckingdammit you will get _DOWN_ from that—get out of here, just get out of here. Good. Heaven knows nothing else is good. I'm sitting here in my underwear and one sock, too sorry-ass to go out. That's all I'd have to do, hit the street and find a coffee shop that has Darjeeling. And then maybe I'd cry and think I never should have gone.

Oh, but I should have. Fucking phone! Can't you answer? Wall, meet phone. I'm sure you'll get along.

This is what I think you look like when you're gone: your cheek is like this, broken because your hand's curved against it, graceful smash like that. You hate train rides. You think that Amtrak's run by a bunch of bastards with no sense of humor, and you're probably right; they don't show good movies or even _have_ movies half the time, how many trains have television? This is why you're looking out the window. I'm going to say suspend your imagination here and forget about the glare of light off glass. I'm looking from the outside, but I don't want glare. I just want you. This is how I see your eyes. You're watching nothing.

You're watching the water rise, maybe. You're thinking about things you can't know, things you know anyway. There wasn't any glare off the glass that day; it was raining. I don't remember who I saw through the window, mostly because it was shaded. I think it was Aunt Trina, and I think that's the last I saw of her for like another three years. I don't know why we never went to visit. It's not like Dad locked us in or anything. Not like he locked her out, either. She just didn't like to come, and by the time I was old enough to know, I didn't blame her. I wouldn't visit either, if I were her, but I'm not. I think I cut my hand on the railing; it was rusty. I think it started to rain about the time I knew my hand was bleeding, and I just sucked it away and it tasted familiar like tears. God, my tears. No one else's.

I have to stop because I'm not seeing you now; I'm seeing things that I don't want in this picture. I'm seeing things that rush along my skin worse than the static, colder than glass, and _shit_ I'll fly to the window if I have to because drowning is better than being chased. Fuck, Osiris. Stay away. _Stay away_.

I've gotta stop this five-year-old shit. She was still alive then; things were okay. Really okay.

Guess I don't need Darjeeling to cry. Here it comes, getting on the charcoal and smearing, ruining your other fingers pressed up against the glass. What're you seeing? Are you seeing me here, thinking of me, squinting maybe because I keep it too dark? Billy, I want you. I want you here in the dark and I want you to keep the couch warm. I want you to hit the fucking vent and then kiss me till I can't think, because anything is better than having to think about this and what day it is; anything is better than wearing around a goddamn Saint Christopher that didn't do Mom one fucking bit of good, and not a bit of her blood got on it.

Can that jeweler up the street fix chains? _Shit_.

This is what I think you look like when I do something stupid like this, like sitting here in the dark crouching over a sketchpad with one sock on and a broken necklace in my hand. This is what I wish you looked like, wishing you hadn't gone, wishing you'd stayed. What the fuck is with your Mom, belated empty nesting? God, no. Don't need Darjeeling to cry. This is just really fucking great, and _fucking hell why can't you answer the fucking phone?_

This is what you look like when I miss you, and I don't have to think about it.

Osiris can walk on you all he wants. Here, kitty, wanna chain? It's busted. Go give it to the fish; they'll take it for pirates' gold, and then when you jump in after it, the little tiger-sirens and ghost frogs will drown you and Billy will have a funeral of his own to face. That's right. Damn cat. Go play. Not on my fucking sketchpad, got it? Fuck, I'm so tired. I need to stop this. Need to make some tea anyway. It's nice and illogical, isn't it? Don't need Darjeeling to cry, who cares if it's Lady Grey or not? Oh, right. Citrus. No good on a day like this, today of all days. Jesus Christ, are we out of Kleenex, too? My foot hurts. I'm just—

_Oh God if that's—_

"I love you."

 _You too_. Can't hold the phone 'cause I'm shaking, but you don't know that. Right. No, I'm okay. I'm _okay_. Everything's broken here, you know? Yes, I said _yes_. Heater, teacup, whateverthefuck. Oh, no, he will _not_. He never learns. Only if he'd cut his nose or paws up or something, then—what? Go to hell, I fucking stepped on it! Uh-huh, I'm sure you would. Blood and an old sock, how's that? Mmm. Standards? How's this for standards, I just— 

It's gonna take me forever to tell you, and the couch is so cold when you're not here.

* * *

I almost started to fight. Just leaning here like I'm asleep, feeling like I'm going to fall except where you've got me. Am I too heavy? Got to be dreaming, your skin's warm. It's cold where I am, and I'm alone. And you're holding me like this, your lips at my forehead. Breath, mouth, sweat. I'm dreaming.

Something won't let me open my eyes to see if this is real or not. Sleep or a drug, something heavy – I don't remember falling asleep, don't remember any drugs. I didn't make tea or take anything. Just rolled over on the couch, let the phone fall. God, how many hours? How many hours did you give me? Three, four? If I closed my eyes, it was like you were there. My eyes are closed again, and you're here. If I open them, you'll be gone and I'll be cold.

Oh, God, we're moving. Fucking vertigo, nothing under me. I can move my arms; I can feel yours tighten. I think this is what it is to be a ghost, never sure if you're awake or asleep. Do ghosts sleep? Ghost frogs sleep. They sit there all still on the bottom late at night, and Osiris just walks away, bored. The little tigers, though, they move. Hunt in a pack-flash of bright orange and black. Never hurt anybody; they're just scary. That's how you wake a ghost frog up. Smooth skin, no scales.

I must still be asleep because you're not turning any lights on, and I'm dreaming of fish and shit. Jupiter, Andromeda, Josephine, and God. They're on speed all the time. Never bothers Anubis, because plecos are so fucking zen. They're his angels or something, those little tigers. Serpents, a river god _would_ have serpents. Poor Osiris.

And now it feels like you're— _shit! I'm gonna fall_ —

"Joey, _Joey_ — _ow_ , hey, I've got—"

"You're here." Mattress, pillows. We're on the bed.

"Yes, you might say that." 

You look like you're going to cry or something. Please don't. Mmm, I can touch your hand. I can kiss it. "How?"

"I took the bus." You can touch my hand, too. Kiss it. See? 

I'm lying here looking up at you, and I don't understand. You did this after four hours on the phone, you did this after I told you everything was gonna be okay, I just needed to hear you. After I told you what day it was and why things are the way they are, even though you knew and wanted to smack yourself for not remembering, after I told you not to worry and that I hoped you were having a good time. You said it was okay. You said you wished I was there. 

"I wished you were here."

"I know." You're trying to smile, but it's not working. "You didn't sound okay. Did you think I'd just leave you alone for another two days?"

Close my eyes, close your eyes. Here's your mouth, here's mine. Let's not talk about this anymore, let's not even think. You're here and I can forget about the stupid fish and my stupid foot, I can forget about everything because you're kissing me now. I love you, _God_ do I love you. It's what you say instead of hello when I need to hear it most. You fucking know everything. Don't let me pretend like that, even when you think it'll make me feel better if you do. Here's my heart, here's yours. If I open my eyes I'll see moonlight, I'll see your hands on my skin, can feel them warm, know I'm not a ghost. Osiris is growling at the tigers, I can hear him.

"What the fuck are you laughing at, Joey?"

You're here. I saw you return.


	5. Getting Out of Dodge

Per usual, everything was Joey's fault: that they were running behind on packing, that Billy's favorite wide-toothed comb was missing, that they'd found an off-campus apartment in the first place. What the fuck had Billy been expecting, that Joey _wouldn't_ keep an eye on every classified ad and bulletin board in Cambridge?

"Get back here!" Billy shouted down the stairwell, strain evident in his voice. "I'm gonna drop this shit!"

Joey ignored him and stepped out into the chill of early April. He paused for a moment, hefting his own overloaded box. He had about three more to go, but Billy was just getting started. How Billy had managed to accrue more shit than he had, Joey would never know. He took a deep breath and hoisted the box up higher, heading straight down the sidewalk and toward the gate. At least it was propped open.

Just as Joey was getting his box settled into the back of the U-Haul his father had insisted on renting for them—let it not be said the old bastard didn't have his uses—Billy came huffing down the sidewalk, his grasp on the box so tenuous that it was down near his knees. It was a comical sight.

"You," Billy panted, dropping the box just shy of Joey's toes, "are an asshole. You know that?"

Instinctively, Joey took a quick step backwards and threw out an arm to block Billy's (non-existent) progress. "Hey, easy! Are you blind? These are my new Fluevogs."

Billy straightened up, his cheeks pink, striking a defensive pose that was, as always, far more vulnerable than it should have been. That was the thing about Billy: all that earnest heart-on-his-sleeve shit was starting to give way to some fairly devious emotional manipulation. It happened with time in most relationships, Joey supposed.

"I almost broke my back hauling a load of electronics down her and all you can think about is your _shoes_?"

"Boots," Joey corrected him, bending to collect the box. Shit, it _was_ heavy. "Which _you_ picked out, douchebag. Would you move for a second?"

It was Billy's turn to take a step back, which he did without unfolding his arms.

"Stop your goddamn pouting," Joey muttered, shoving the box as far back into the trailer as he could. "We'll get the rest of your shit, then finish off mine. How's that?"

Billy shrugged, but he'd let the ghost of a smile creep in.

"Yeah, I guess so. Moving's your forte, not mine."

"As long as you'll take care of decorating, we're square," Joey said, dropping a kiss on Billy's cheek as he started back toward the dorm. They couldn't get out soon enough.


End file.
